


Relocation

by notmyrevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Listen," Grantaire snaps, because seriously, fuck this, "I'm your boyfriend, not your fucking babysitter, Enjolras. Sorry your protest sucked, but you either let me do this or you go to a hospital."</p><p>"Do you know what you're doing?" Enjolras asks, finally, and Grantaire ignores the accusatory tone in his voice in favour of rolling his eyes.</p><p>"The third member of our little trio is Bahorel, Enjolras," Grantaire points out, sarcasm heavy on his tongue, gesturing to Bahorel as he walks back into the room. "Yeah, I've done this before."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relocation

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by .

Bahorel is at one of Enjolras's rallies.

Which is fine, he's allowed to exercise his constitutional rights. Except the only thing Bahorel likes more than a protest is a riot, and he's with Enjolras. Which means both of them are going to come back and Grantaire's going to get to guess whose blood is whose.

The alcohol isn't going to kill him, Grantaire's sure of this. It's going to be Enjolras and Bahorel.

Several hours of thinking leads him to this, so when the door opens, bringing both Enjolras and Bahorel into the apartment, it's second nature for Grantaire to immediately look for injuries. Enjolras is leaning on Bahorel's shoulder, cradling his arm to his chest and bleeding messily across his face, and Grantaire thinks that the sex isn't worth this much stress

He's off the couch in an instant, getting himself to Enjolas's other side and leading him across the room. Bahorel's sporting the beginnings of a black eye, and a split lip that's covering his mouth and chin with blood, but otherwise he's upright and grinning like he's has a shot of adrenaline to the heart.

"What the fuck happened?" Grantaire asks, setting Enjolras down on the couch.

"It turned into a riot," Bahorel replies simply, and Grantaire can't even pretend to be surprised. This happens nearly every time, and he'd try to stop them going together, except he knows that Bahorel being there is the only reason Enjolras doesn't end up in hospital or jail. Grantaire will take a bit of blood over that. Enjolras isn't going to stop; he has his heart set on being a burning star, the least they can do is try to keep him here for as long as possible. Knowing Bahorel is there keeps Grantaire's heart from breaking down.

They leave Enjolras on the couch, just for a moment, as Grantaire goes into the bathroom to get the medkit and Bahorel follows to wash the blood from his mouth.

"This is not what I meant when I said I'd like to have Enjolras with us," Grantaire grumbles, hands closing around the box under the sink. Bahorel is silent for a moment as he gargles mouthwash, before spitting it out to speak.

"You say that every time, asshole," Bahorel replies, and Grantaire has nothing to say to that, because it's not like they'd stop even if he weren't around. The only difference would be he'd sit _alone_ worrying. At least like this he can make sure they aren't dead.

He comes back to the couch to find Enjolras looks pale. Grantaire doesn't think it's from blood-loss, though he's no expert, but more likely it's pain, and the nausea associated with it. He can't tell if Enjolras has a concussion from whatever has hit his head, but judging by the way he his shoulder juts at a weird angle, Grantaire guesses it's dislocated.

"You know I'm not a doctor, right?" Grantaire asks roughly, voice annoyed, though his touch is gentle where he pushes Enjolras's hair back from his face. Enjolras's eyes flick up, and _good_ , he's annoyed and frustrated and that's good because that means he's lucid and probably not concussed.

Grantaire sighs, and calls for Bahorel, because they're going to need to set this shoulder back in place, and it's always so much easier with the two of them. Enjolras is stubbornly silent, unimpressed, his glare ferocious and if Grantaire were anyone else he'd retreat to let Enjolras sulk and lick his wounds in peace. But he's not, he can go toe-to-toe with Enjolras's stubborn streak even on his worst days, and right now he doesn't give a _fuck_ what Enjolras wants.

Christ, and people think _he's_ one they need to worry about.

"Listen," Grantaire snaps, because seriously, _fuck this_ , "I'm your boyfriend, not your fucking babysitter, Enjolras. Sorry your protest sucked, but you either let me do this or you go to a hospital."

"Do you know what you're doing?" Enjolras asks finally, and Grantaire ignores the accusatory tone in his voice in favour of rolling his eyes.

"The third member of our little trio is _Bahorel,_ Enjolras," Grantaire points out, sarcasm heavy on his tongue, gesturing to Bahorel as he walks back into the room. "Yeah, I've done this before."

Bahorel's holding a bottle of whiskey, which he obligingly puts into Grantaire's hand. Grantaire's not sure which one of them it's supposed to be for, because Enjolras looks like he could use a shot or five, but Grantaire feels like he needs the whole bottle just to calm his nerves. He's done this before, sure, he's even fucking researched it, made Joly teach him how to do it properly, but that doesn't mean he's not terrified of fucking it up. This is _Enjolras_ , Grantaire won't forgive himself if he does this wrong.

Bahorel squeezes his shoulder and takes his place behind Enjolras on the couch. Grantaire unscrews the cap on the whiskey and takes a long swallow straight from the bottle. It warms him on the way down, settles something inside him, and the displeasure on Enjolras's face lasts only until Grantaire passes the bottle over.

"Drink," Grantaire instructs. "Then lay back."

Enjolras does so, his face screwing up at the burn of the whiskey, before he sets the bottle aside and lays down, breath hissing out through his teeth in pain as he does. Bahorel's hands guide his head into his's lap, and Grantaire doesn't miss the tender way Bahorel's fingers stroke the side of Enjolras's face.

Grantaire knows they only agreed to this because of him. He was the one who argued _why can't I have both_ when faced with a choice between what he loved and what he wanted. Without him, Enjolras and Bahorel probably wouldn't consider it, he knows this, and for the longest time it felt just like he had two boyfriends rather than a _trio._

Seeing Bahorel giving such casual affection to Enjolras though, seeing Enjolras's small smile directed at Bahorel... Grantaire is pretty sure the grin on his face looks stupid.

It does more to calm his nerves than the whiskey does.

Everything about this is a bad idea.

Grantaire takes Enjolras's wrist gently, braces his other hand just above Enjolras's elbow, and pulls his arm away from his chest. Enjorlas's face contorts briefly, though it's more from the anticipation of pain, rather than pain itself. Grantaire flicks his gaze up to Bahorel, meets his eyes and here they can speak without words. All he needs is to nod at Enjolras and Bahorel _knows_ , knows to take his face in his hands and start speaking.

"Hey, so listen dumbass, I don't know what you were trying to achieve today," Bahorel says, and his voice is a soothing rumble. It causes Enjolras to look up at him, to look away from his arm. "But what the hell?"

Enjolras responds, but Grantaire tunes them out. He doesn't care about the protest, _he fucking hates protests anyway_ , and he needs to focus on what he's doing, or else he's really going to fuck it up. Grantaire presses Enjolras's upper arm closer to his body and holds it there, pulling his forearm towards Grantaire's chest. Grantaire can feel the pressure. He lets out a slow breath, fixes his grip on Enjolras's wrist and rotates, working his shoulder the same way he works a goddamn bottle cap, and there's the resistance. That's what he wants, and he looks up to make sure Enjolras is distracted, and _slowly_ , slowly is the most important, he lifts.

There's a _pop_ , the sound of bone cracking into place and Enjolras _instantly_ sags in relief. He hisses out a sound and pushes himself upright, looking determined. It’s a look Grantaire knows, that usually means he’s intent on getting back to work, on calling a meeting and _debriefing_ , and Grantaire thinks briefly that it hurts, being trapped in a star’s orbit.

“Hey, woah, sunshine,” Bahorel interrupts, because he can read Enjolras too, and sets his hands against Enjolras’s sides to hold him down. “We’re not done with you, yet.”

Grantaire wonders if he could’ve done this without Bahorel. If it were just he and Enjolras, attention focused entirely, if they would really  _work_. Grantaire’s not stupid, he knows Bahorel plays mediator, tempers them, acts at the balance. Without that, Grantaire thinks, he and Enjolras have the potential to be a supernova, catastrophic and beautiful at the same time. Bahorel is the mid-way point, a perfect mix between Enjolras’s absolute idealism and Grantaire’s absolute cynicism.

He’s also fucking useful for holding Enjolras down and stopping him being an idiot.

“I am fine,” Enjolras insists, and he sounds like a petulant child. “Everything else is superficial damage, and I--”

“You’re bleeding from the head,” Bahorel says, and squeezes his hands to emphasise that Enjolras isn’t going _anywhere_. Grantaire nods in agreement, and moves to get something, but pauses when Enjolras interrupts him.

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of using the _whiskey_ as an antiseptic agent,” He snaps, and Grantaire closes his eyes for a moment and tries very, _very_ hard to remind himself that it’s the pain that’s making Enjolras snappy and no, he _doesn’t_ want to strangle his boyfriend.

“For one, _no_ , I brought the medkit out here for a reason,” Grantaire says, and keeps reaching for it, very deliberately bringing it up where Enjolras can see, before he continues, “And two, _fuck no_ , I wouldn’t waste whiskey like that, not even on your pretty face.”

From behind Enjolras, Bahorel laughs.

Grantaire opens the medkit, flicks through the contents until he finds the neatly package square, helpfully printed with the words “ _70% Isopropyl Alcohol”,_ and tears it open with his teeth. He curls his fingers around Enjolras’s jaw, holding his head still, and reaches up.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing glo-- _fuck!”_ Enjolras cuts himself off with a hiss, and tries to jerk away, except Grantaire’s hand tightens to keep him in place. Bahorel presses against his back, giving him no leverage, and he’s effectively trapped. It’s not the first time they’ve been like this, Grantaire thinks briefly, except usually they’re all naked and having Enjolras demand one of them _move_. Or both of them. Those are fun nights.

He continues cleaning the blood away, trying to look sympathetic each time Enjolras hisses at the sting, and it’s only once his face is white and the swab red does Grantaire realise the wound looked worse than it is. Enjolras needs a band-aid, but really, that’s about it. Grantaire thinks he should be a doctor, not a bartender.

“It looks fine,” he says, though he says this for Bahorel’s benefit, rather than Enjolras’s. Bahorel is an open book when he’s not concentrating, and Grantaire can tell he’s feeling guilty for not protecting Enjolras better. Enjolras would argue he doesn’t need protection, and Grantaire is inclined to agree. He doesn’t need protection, he needs a goddamn leash to keep him indoors.

“We’re done,” Grantaire says, and leans back. Bahorel tentatively lets go of Enjolras, though his hands hover close, ready to grab again if needed, except Enjolras doesn’t move. He just looks _tired_. Grantaire brushes his hair back gently, and shares a look with Bahorel. They all look tired, really.

“Bed?” Grantaire asks, suggests, and Enjolras’s head drops forward, the unmarred side of his forehead resting gently against Grantaire’s collarbone.

“Bed,” Bahorel agrees, and hooks his hand against Enjolras’s ribs, under his arm, supporting him as Bahorel guides him to his feet. “C’mon, sunshine, you can be in the middle.”

Enjolras, for once, doesn’t complain.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at [tumblr!](http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com)


End file.
